Dead Winter Stray~ By: Poet Destroyer
Nearby paces, Combatants lost under the cemetery walls,
“Blessed Men and Heavenly Remedy Women of Ages,”
Feelings of dance at the beginning of nightfall,
Scenery of fire, sadness passing this history page,
In that distant curve, somewhere nears the sundown stream.
Far away from the vision of mortal eyes,
A child plays as beautiful and pale like the sunrise.
She plays on the coast this beautiful but pale, sun raised child.
Pursuing nature, in a hushed angelic lucidity,
“In hushed angelic lucidity!”
Fragile fastened, to those adequate bones.
Profound deepness beneath the snow winder dust,
Below the memoirs of her floating vessel,
Reminisces of water drowning down rivers and streams,
A shattered female kneels in salvation.
An anvil so heavy it troubles the mind.
Lost in profoundness, in what might have been.
What was, for a moment in this period?
The grimness of her weak vessel dwells.
A lifeless winter strays around.
An album so old and dusty,
A christening gown not ever embraced.
Infinite, the woman and pale child of sunrise,
Soften footfalls beating out the torments.
Countless nights seeing the day of unspoken headstones,
Feelings of dance will never rest this heartache.
Eternity, in a dance of unconditional need,
Their hearts unite as one...
A closing of mother and child…
~BY: PD~
Dead Winter~ By: Catie Lindsey
There walks Warriors in that graveyard,
Holy Men and Medicine Women of ages;
at night you can see their Spirits dance,
setting fire to history's pages.
In that far corner, up by the stream,
far from the eyes of publicity,
she plays on the shore, beautiful Raylene,
catching poly-wogs, in silent lucidity.
In silent lucidity.
Brittle now, those fine bones,
deep beneath the snow drifts of winter,
beneath the memories of her body afloat
down rivers and streams of Remember.
A broken woman kneels in prayer,
a heavy weight on a burdened mind,
somewhere deep in what could have been,
what was, for a moment in time.
The grayness of her frail body lingers,
in a dead winter of the unborn,
on page forty-nine in the family album,
in a baptismal gown never worn.
Together they dance,the woman and the child,
their soft footfalls pounding out the sorrows
of many days at a worn out headstone,
many dances to come, many tomorrows.
Together they dance, The Woman's Dance,
their hearts as one...
the woman and the child.
~By: Catie Lindsey~
(for Catie's: Re-write contest..)

three women with points on their licenses to the tomb of Jesus they ventured
as they had a love for our Savior that was totally uncensored
they were told that the Roman soldiers over His tomb were standing guard
but they had a need to consecrate His body that compelled them to do their part
it was risky and unreasonable in the minds of most
but man's reasoning has no value when it comes to our Heavenly Host
to do the impossible that is what they desired
and with the power of the Holy Spirit they were then inspired
to walk by faith and not by sight guided by God's spiritual light
and when those women got to the tomb they then discovered
that the sepulcher of Jesus was now uncovered
no Roman soldiers were in sight
just an Angel of God wearing raiment snow white
"fear not" the Angel said, for the prophecy has been fulfilled
the Messiah Jesus has risen from the dead for it is God's will
the mighty stone had been rolled away
it was a bold godly display
do you know that God will roll away any stone that impedes your life?
as He rolled away the stone at the tomb of His beloved Son Jesus the Christ
to be raised from the death of corruption and sin
restored, renewed, revived and born again
raised up from societal barriers of destruction
now a new creation in Christ's gospel production
the Lord desires that we live abundantly
and to walk with the power of His authority
so never forget the sacrifice and the blood that was shed
when Jesus the Christ by the hand of God was raised from the dead

They see strengths
Not the limitations
These are people who will make you proud of yourself
They will tell you why you’re special
Trust you to the point you have to answer their expectations
They make you better than you normally are
You can be proud of yourself
They respect you
For what you’ve done
Where you’ve come from
They see what you’ve experienced something real
Respect you for your courage
They live by their rules
They do not expect you to follow theirs
They are at peace to themselves
They are not proving anything to you
They are good listeners
Sincere in their interest in you
You feel important
They are available for honest
Genuine discussion
Makes you want to share yourself

The Women
(for the countless women, names unknown, who bore the brunt of Apartheid, and who fought the racist system at great cost to themselves and their families, and for my mother, Zubeida Moolla)
Pregnant, your husband on the run,
your daughter, a child, a few years old,
they hauled you in, these brutish men,
into the bowels of Apartheid's racist hell.
They wanted information, you gave them nothing,
these savage men, who skin happened to be lighter,
and white was right in South Africa back then,
but, you did not cower, you stood resolute,
you, my mother, faced them down, their power,
their 'racial superiority', their taunts, their threats.
You, my mother, would not, could not break,
You stood firm, you stood tall.
You, like the countless mothers did not break, did not fall.
You told me many things, of the pains, the struggles,
the scraping for scraps, the desolation of separation
from your beloved Tasneem and your beloved Azad,
my elder sister and brother, whom I could not grow
up with, your beloved children separated by time, by place,
by monstrous Apartheid, by brutish men,
whose skin just happened to be lighter.
You told me many things, as I grew older,
of the years in exile, of the winters that grew ever colder.
You were a fighter, for a just cause,
like countless other South African women,
you sacrificed much, you suffered the pangs,
of memories that cut into your bone, your marrow,
you resisted a system, an ideology, brutal and callous and narrow.
Yes, you lived to see freedom arrive, yet you suffered still,
a family torn apart, and struggling to rebuild a life,
all the while, nursing a void, that nothing could ever fill.
I salute you, mother, as I salute the nameless mothers,
the countless sisters, daughters, women of this land,
who fought, sacrificing it all for taking a moral stand.
I salute you, my mother, and though you have passed,
your body interred in your beloved South African soil,
you shall remain, within me, an ever-present reminder,
of the cost of freedom, the struggles, the hunger, the toil.
I salute you!
(for the brave women of South Africa, of all colours,
who fought against racial discrimination and Apartheid)

I am the face of misery
My life, a dissonance of autumn and spring,
The years are written in the same
Lugubrious, nostalgic grey
How can it be the author to blame?
I cannot scream this all away…
Burn nor Bleed this all away…
To Death I am Ordained
Lacuna ever growing
With Velvet sheets of life flowing
Aeons apart of my "royalty"
Under the mask the cannot see...
Can you dispel this tragedy:
Antigone - Epiphany failing
If it must be…
Then just kill me,
(Antigone) sing me out of reality;
I wear this dissonant crown of shame
(Antigone) Of a kingdom's disdain
I hate to be this way... normalcy's bane
(Antigone) Here comes the edict, to blame
The sordid child of Thebes,
This is me,
Antigone
No words of hope
No words of hate
Do I have Lenore to send to me:
The sordid child of Thebes
Caught In the longest nightmare
life - the slowest way to die
I know this is my life
But I'm not under control
under the mask the will see
Just Another Human
If it must be…
Then just kill me,
(Antigone) sing me out of reality;
I wear this dissonant crown of shame
(Antigone) Of a kingdom's disdain
I hate to be this way... normalcy's bane
(Antigone) Here comes the edict, to blame
The sordid child of Thebes,
This is me,
Antigone
If it must be…
Then just kill me,
(Antigone) sing me out of reality;
I wear this dissonant crown of shame
(Antigone) Of a kingdom's disdain
I hate to be this way... normalcy's bane
(Antigone) Here comes the edict, to blame
The sordid child of Thebes,
This is me,
Antigone
Can you dispel my life; this tragedy?
Can you control the storm in my mind?
I'm asking you: can you rid me
Of The Curse of Antigone?

The singer sang from beyond the grave,*
Or in his grave, to be true.
His voice reached up to the architrave
And vibrated in every pew.
The vicar called on the choir to sing
As loud as loud they could.
But the voice had an even louder ring
Sending quivers down the rood.
Oh Lord, they sang, oh mighty God,
Gloria in excelsis deo.
But the singer sang of life’s hard rod
And of Hell's undying blow.
The women looked up the pillars tall,
While big-eyed children cried.
The singer had them in his thrall,
But was not to be descried.
The vicar read his sermon out,
As if proclaiming from the mount.
The singer responded with a voice so stout,
He sang of fear’s rich fount.
The congregation lost relation
To the good man’s godly word.
They stood in helpless trepidation,
Their souls so far disturbed.
The church’s doors swung open wide,
To a cascade of chattering leaves;
The screams and panic and terror inside
Shook the church to its very eaves.
And then, oh then, oh horror pure,
The spectre appeared at the door.
His bloodied hair, his sombre allure,
Chilled the living to the core.
The vicar clutched up bible and ran
Through a hidden door to the side,
The singer opened his cloak like a fan
And wrapped all the children inside.
The women bemoaned this cruellest loss,
They wailed to the crucified Christ.
But bound and weak and nailed as he was,
There was nothing he could do.
* This Poem should be read in conjunction with 'The Pauper's Grave'

People were
Many things.
Strange or not
People were
Different and
Odd and fun.
People were
Monsters but…
That’s not all
People were
And still are
Strange and odd.
People are
People. For
life is life.
Yet not.
Not is lies.
Truth seeps from
Every mouth
Lies, lies, lies
Move, move, move
But somehow
Lies prevail.
Lies are life.
Lies are death.
Lies are homes.
Lies are pain.
Lies are truth.
Yet somehow.
Truth prevails.
Truth is life.
Truth is death.
Truth is home.
Truth is pain.
Truth is lie.
Truth is that.
Lies will die.
Lies will cease.
Nevermore.
Truth will live.
Truth will be.
Forever.

Where am I? Why is it dark?
This isn’t what I had in mind when I left the park…
Why isn’t the wind whispering…the songbirds singing?
All I remember is a telephone ringing…
A scream and a crash and a pain in my side…
Is this what happens after one’s died?
I don’t feel like myself, I feel wild and free,
Yet I’m cold and alone, 'stead of filled with glee.
My whole life I’ve studied, and pondered, and prayed,
Trying to fathom what would happen this day
But now that it’s here, I’m beginning to fear
Maybe the afterlife’s not what it appears…
It’s certainly not what I’ve been told by my preacher
Or my parents or brother or best friend or teacher…
Is it a bad thing, or is it good?
Maybe it’s just not quite understood...
While I was on Earth, I just couldn’t wait
To meet good St. Peter at the heavenly gate
And ask him a question or query or two
“What was my purpose?” “What good did I do?”
“What’s it all for?” “How does it all flow?”
“Can I have one more body, one more try, one more go?”
But where is the angel? Where is the gate? And
If this is Hell, then where is Ol’ Satan?
Am I a lost soul? Am I forgotten?
Am I to be left here until I am rotten?
Lo and behold! what, now, can this be?
Is this a wonderful spiritual epiphany?
Is this the magical feeling all souls receive
When they leave Earth? Oh! was I that naïve?
How could I have not seen the realism?
Why was I consumed in man-made idealism?
This is more wondrous than all I was taught
Oh, all the times I argued and fought
With others, ‘bout how their views were asinine
Now I see, theirs were just as wrong as mine!
Little I thought was actually correct!
How, why, did I let others petty beliefs infect
My untouched, my pure, my virgin mind?
I regret all the hours I self-tortured to find
That compared to what I see now, I was empty and blind…
Wait - - What is this that I see?
What is this gateway that is revealed unto me?
Now a door is opened to my immortal soul
I am expected now to enter my life’s final goal…
I am scared, intimidated, but still I am glad…
For the truth I have just seen is anything but bad.
This is the end of my journey, I’ve nothing to fear,
For now I am going Beyond the Frontier.

As the sun sets
and the twilight comes out,
as the birds and squrriels are no where in sight.
As the whores and pimps sit on street corners,
waiting for street lights to turn from green to red.
As cadillacs stop and roll their windows down.
I can her the faint cry deep in the darkness,
of dirty gutters and dark, dead end alleyways,
I hear the faint tears fall and hit concrete pavement.
I feel the faint cries of whores,
I hear the sound of backhand hitting face
and brused tissue and broken noses are everywhere.
And the somber tears fall onto pillow cases,
and white motel bedsheets run red with blood
and cheap Italian wine.
And you can her the poet over the radio,
reading his own work for the one millionth time
and you can hear his soul slowly wanting to die.
He drowns himself in smoke and alcohol
the whore takes her pay, or spends a night in a jail cell,
the pimp nowhere to be found,
with a shiny blade stuck deep in his gut.
And the somber tears fall gently on the concrete pavement,
the floors of a jail cell,
tears on the pillow case and tears on a lonesome stage.
Tears never present, but are seen by many,
pain aches and pain takes away,
and I pour one more drink for the whore.
She takes me away,
and I caught her salty, somber tear,
and she crawled into my warm embrace.
I was the one who stuck the blade in the gut of that pimp,
who broke her nose and made her bleed,
with a cowardess and souless backhand.
I walk into the moonlight,
hearing the somber tears all around me,
crash violently to the concrete pavement.
The Earth rumbles and erupts with these tears,
that are shead for fellow Men, and Women and Children,
but we all look at ourselves and smile.
Happy we don't pay rent,
happy we don't have cancer,
happy we aren't six feet under;
But we still all cry,
Why?
Somber tears all fall in one big wave
crashing violently on the concrete pavement.
Now the red light turns green,
and the traffic moves along,
the whore is still at her corner,
the pimp still with the blade in his gut.

From ashes
she rises,
absolving
cleansing,
face, hands, feet.
Four months,
Ten days,
She mourns.
She weeps.
She clothes herself now
in an adornment of white
bowing privately,
praying fervently,
as bitter fumes
of acetone
seep beneath the door.
Her source is god.
Her destination is god.
She pleads with god now
for peace
As men mix and pour
A holocaust
Just outside her door.
Her sisters wail.
They bathe her lifeless arms
And shroud her
as Iris Albicans-
Exotic,
Fragile,
Pure.
The imam, he stands,
Praying silently
As men convey her
towards Mecca.
From ashes to ashes
And dust to dust.
From ashes to ashes
And dust to dust.

Romeo and Juliet
Their love prompted their society to fret
And led to their suicidal death
In one of the greatest love stories yet
Lancelot and Guinevere
They had an adulterous love affair
Which demonstrated very clear
Her unfaithfulness to her husband dear
Paris of Troy and Helen
In his love for her he was so smitten
This led to his country's ruin
And also cost the lives of many men
Anthony and Cleopatra
He followed in the footsteps of Caesar
Who was also her son's father
And he made this foreign queen his lover
Samson and Delilah
He was well known as a strong warrior
Until she became his barber
After which he lost his strength and power
David and Bathsheba
Through loving her, he became a sinner
And turned into a murderer
Despite his image as a great ruler
Shah Jahal and Mumtaz Mahal
Among his wives he loved her best of all
Their love he made monumental
And embodied it in the Taj Mahal

The cash and carry of love
Which summer doth requisite
When will thou birth me a dove?
Soon autumn will bid for hunt- 5
To gratify winter’s drudge
Oh! Far is the sight of spring
None can pacify better
For season flies without wings
And quick does it charm scald beauty
Of whose time shall be pleaded? 10
As vaguely summer doth leave
Crow beckons with a caw
The womb that is long barren
Whom for eon is not loved
And in earth’s hate it joy is lost 15
Quick drains life off it victim

You my friend In White Saree and grim faced
Your dresses were, as always, colorful and laced
What happened to that enchanting, infectious smile?
Where is that enthusiasm, your charming style
Death is a reality and everyone must die
The living ones mustn't be left for agony to fry
Humans are not candles that burns through the night
Tell me why widowers are not made to wear White
Why should only women this branding endure
They are also human with a heart and soul for sure
Change this White Saree and in the garbage throw
This is how a system that is archaic must go
Come to me, my love, let me teach you what is life
Your being mustn’t be embodiment of agony and strife
Give up this white coffin and wear red, scarlet and pink
The fountain of life is gushing out; it is for you to drink
Let us, like our olden days, in horizon of thoughts fly
Life’s rainbows await you; so do colors of butterfly
Shed your gloom and let the roses of your cheeks blossom
Walk along the valley of life hand in hand with a handsome
1. Widowed women wear only white in Hindu Religion
2. Saree is the dress of Indian and Bangladeshi women

When a man cries himself to sleep,
it is a sad sight to see,
tears roll off his cheek
and onto his bed sheets and pillow case.
When you hear his somber cries,
you can feel his pain
when he wimpers like a child who treds in fear.
No one knows what they do to a man
when they play with his emotions,
lead him on,
take advantage of him.
They don't know what they do to an innocent man
looking for love.
They break his heart that is full of love,
they stab him in the back
when he needs them at his most vulnerable moment
they laugh at him, and tease him,
Do they know what they do to a man?
They slowly kill a man, who just wants a simple kiss on the lips,
they kill a dreamer, a good man, with a big heart.
They drive a man to his bed,
with tears running down his face
and force him to dream of nightmares.
When a man cries himself to sleep,
it is that saddest thing to see.
Goodnight and sweet dreams...

Another example of Western hypocrisy,
Is Bahrain where they claim "Democracy",
A self-designed "Democracy" of dictatorship,
Which actually started from a pirate-ship,
In history you will find that some pirates,
Who were the robbery and theft laureates,
Through cheating, fraud and deception,
Killings, aggression and corruption,
They came into power to abuse everyone,
Before was with sword and now is with the gun,
They thought that their kingdom will last,
Because of their savagery, which is vast,
Did not imagine that they would be faced,
With people's protests and be disgraced,
And that the whole world will come to know,
About the truth of Bahraini Kingdom's show,
This show is about the killings and rapes,
Bodies with signs of torture and scrapes,
Children, men or women have no difference,
In receiving this torture for-instance,
They raid the houses with troops anytime,
And become altogether partners in crime,
The news are filled with photos of tortures,
But Western governments are just the watchers
They have no movement or any gestures,
Perhaps they're waiting to eat like "Vultures",
West have been playing "Divide and Rule",
Thats how they fight with this tool,
But they couldn't start a Shia-Sunni fight,
So they created "Takfiris" or "Salafis", despite,
Now they just sit back and enjoy the show,
Because they sowed this decades ago,
O' Muslims! We must wakeup and realize,
Or we will, from earth, vanish, otherwise,
O' People of Bahrain we are with you by heart,
Every hurdle has a comfort in a part,
Even though it is Eid, tears are dropping,
As if the humanity is itself plopping.
Eid is a word for Muslims happy celebrations specially after Ramadhan. The Bahraini people are facing aggression and brutality of Bahrain's government forces since many decades.
From the book "Take Your freedom" 2013
Available at www.amazon.com

Meeting you in the court of dawn,
Yes! We played and cried on life’s lawn.
Mutating dreams to reality the task at noon,
Ordering my trembling steps to the moon
Tearing our fate at dusk
Hands of death task
Earth you depart mot my path
Resquicat in pace and in my heart

When the coven of ill-willed women seek revenge,
from anyone they deem too big for their britches,
They go to the book of sorcery for witches,
In the book, they seek deliverance from women
who shine brighter than morning stars,
looking for panaceas and disasters,
Brews that could curl their hair and tarnish their shoes,
Nothing short of voodoo,
They'd even stoop to mixing up batches of goulash,
sprinkled with feces, and disguised by hash,
Their boundaries are limitless when they want to anhiliate,
They would go as far as tempting fate,
A feast of feces becomes no trouble at all,
when they want to cast anyone away,
so they may become the Belles of the Balls.......

All turned down to the worst
as the children lost innocence,
as the bums drank their last breath away,
as the man eating sharks finding their way,
to the over-crowded sandy beaches,
as the man turn to the woman
and gave her a slap across the face,
as the thef steals in the night,
as the coward goes behind his loved ones' backs,
as the oil lanterns spill over and burn the bridges
to salvation and paradise.
Something always happens to the good guy,
a knife in the back in the midst of dawn,
his woman leaving with another man,
he dying slowly of cancer,
or suffering from intoxication of the blood.
Poison. Poison, ravages his body,
oh, how could God let such things happen
to such a good man?
His life work, his social life, his nirvana
all destroied, burned away, turned to dust.
But with the evil, came the good.
Yes with time and time again
repeating itself in a circle of time,
across the crossed faces,
as blue eyed Death smiles
and as the girls grin,
Everything came into place,
Anyway with evil, came the good.
Indeed it had came right to his front doorstep.

Her name is now a legend
Before her name was feared
The lady Henrietta
Lean close and lend an ear
They say her status started
One night long time ago
She found her husband cheating
With the girl she knew next door
Her mind did snap
Her heart grew cold
With a knife she stole their souls
Cut the beating heart away
Ate flesh when cold
Within her veins flowed the blood
Of the one who done her wrong
Gave her everlasting life
Her age in death was old
But one small thing that should be said
About the spell she cast
That beauty would always be her guide
In death she looked her best
Word spread quickly through the town
Where Henrietta lived
About the spell she cast the night
Her husband committed sin
Women came to ask for help
To change their husband’s ways
For they had also messed around
Now love for them had strayed
With each one she gave the spell
Steps to end their grief
Now in the town such beauty found
In women who’s husbands cheat
With new found beauty each started life
Fresh and young again
And if the man they loved did cheat
Revenge was sweet again
Many many years went by
And soon the town was gone
Towards the end all that was left
Were women who were scorned
But in woods outside the town
In a placed called Widow’s Peak
You find plots of all the ones
Whose death came from a cheat
So this story lives today
If you doubt then ask around
For the one you love and share a life
Could be a widow from that town
All men beware all women ask
Before you start your cheating
In every city and every town
A Widow’s Peak is forming
Believe me if you will or not
In the end you’ll heed the warning
Just let the one you love find out
To Widow’s Peak you’re going

~What Easter Means To me~
Passover is here once again
Nisan fourteenth, but what do we gain
Some have chocolate eggs, that's what they wait for.
But what does it mean this date we adore.
It is now called Easter, in our modern times
But what is the story behind this old crime
The death of Jesus although long ago foretold
Was not to give eggs and bunnies to hold.
The death of Jesus was to wipe out our sins
The resurrection was to show a new way begins
On the third day when Jesus arose
The women were aghast that the tomb was not closed
Two men in flashing clothes stood close on by
The women were frightened and did not look high
Why are you looking for the living amongst the dead?
Jesus is not here, he is raised up instead.
Jesus died a man, the prophecy now fulfilled
But was raised as a King by his father, his heavenly Kingdom to build.
He gave his life to fulfill the prophecy and pay the ransom price
Right down to his coat being cast lots over with dice.
He died to give us all a chance to live
So think about this more when chocolate eggs you do give.

Hamba Kahle Anene Booysen! (1996 – 2013)
Dead at 17, brutally raped and left to die,
in the dirt,
at a construction site in Bredasdorp.
‘horrific’, ‘repulsed’,
‘brutally raped’, ‘shocked’,
do these words mean anything,
to anyone,
anymore.
Not to Anene Booysen,
murdered at 17, brutally raped and left to die,
in the dirt,
at a construction site in Bredasdorp.
Anene was raped,
savagely mutilated,
Her 17 year old body tossed aside,
by the hands of men.
Men, always men,
cowardly, beastly, perverted, twisted men.
‘Beastly’, ‘perverted’, ‘twisted’,
do these words mean anything,
to anyone,
anymore.
Not to Anene Booysen,
who now lies cold and dead.
How many Anene Booysens will it take,
for us,
society,
families,
people,
human-beings,
and,
men, especially men,
to excise the ghastly menace,
of the heinous capacity that resides,
within men,
always men,
to brutalise, rape, mutilate, and murder.
‘Brutalise’, ‘murder’, ‘rape’,
do these words mean anything,
to anyone,
anymore.
Not to Anene Booysen,
murdered at 17, brutally raped and left,
to die,
in the dirt,
at a construction site,
in Bredasdorp.
Anene Booysen
(1996 – 2013)
* – Hamba Kahle – “Farewell, Travel Well” in Zulu
** – Bredasdorp is a small town near Cape Town, South Africa

Somewhere in Transylvania a pale-faced man
named count Dracula spread much terror in his land;
from his massive castle towering the towns below,
he sought fresh blood from throbbing veins
and they were of the youngest, pritties virgins
he abducted in the midnight moon's shimmering glow!
The horrified villagers left their lamps on and flashed wooden crosses
to keep him away from their doors as he lurked in every narrow street;
innocent girls heard about him and didn't seem terrified of his teeth...
and they couldn't wait for them to sink in their necks velvety as roses!
O Dracula, those victims dangling from the ceiling of that dark dungeon
moaned from starvation and seemed much colder that a silver rod;
and while they were dying, you still sucked the last drop of their blood!
O Dracula, men with pointy sticks hid in your castle and waited for dawn!
How could you lay in your coffin and sleep knowing you were going to die
on any morning at the hands of angry men to wanted to avenge every cruel deed?
A stick made as sharp as a blade was the perfect tool to kill a vampire,
and as you lay asleep, they stabbed you into the heart letting blood gush as a stream!
Somewhere in Transylvania in a castle so shunned and cursed by any traveler,
Dracula's restless spirit roams through hunted hall of shimmering light,
and powerless as he is, he still searches for souls subdued by fright...
but as a convict with a life sentence, he is condemned to wander and despair!

When the night comes,
and the world is a away,
the demons step out,
as their corpses decay.
Across Will-street,
lived a mysterious sinner.
A famous voice,
whose faintest whisper made the mighty shiver.
Her long gold locks,
made many a man weak,
till he knew her up close,
where no one could hear his helpless shriek.
Burning lust,
disappeared in her embrace,
then moving swiftly,
dripping blood from her long nails.
She was her daddy's girl, people say,
till she hit him with a gun.
No man could ever escape,
the trap of this woman.
Courage, don't be weak,
don't let your young heart loose.
She is waiting till the night birds call,
she has her sight on the whole town view.
Widows always weep,
the young is red meat,
when she kills all the sinners,
she is the bad woman.
When your daddy is cheap,
you ought to be weak,
but she is not a dying soul,
she is Bloodwoman.

Time, to buy our poppies
To remember once again
remember those who died for us
And those who were just maimed
We must also remember
Those, who lost their loved ones
Mothers, sister’s, daughters
Fathers, brothers, son's
What a lot of us can't imagine
What torment that must be
But they all gave their lives for us
To make our country free
In one hundred years
Two wars some endured
lost fathers in the 1st, sons in the last
This fighting is absurd
And still we send our menfolk
To fight the wars abroad
Please end this madness
I beg thee dear lord...
We think we're in recession
But do we really know
The hardships that our grandparents
Suffered against the foe
Bombed out of house and home
Nowhere else to go
Then all neighbours rallied round
To help they were not slow
Rationing came about
For food, for clothes, for fuel
From just scrag ends of meat
Made appetizing gruel
Women took over men’s jobs
In factories, farms and such
Blackouts, sirens, shelters
Hardship there was much
Army, air force and navy
Were not the only ones
But fire-fighters, nurses, doctors
Air raid wardens, everyone
They all played some part
In winning against the foe
Many lost their lives
A dreadful way to go
Some might say its better
To die instantly my friends
For many, many suffered
In agony till the end
We can’t possibly imagine
What it's like there at the front
Many months of fighting
With no end in sight
In trenches,
Your comrades all about you lying
Water logged and stinking,
Lying, crying, dying.
So please stand in silence
Remember, remember them
They fought for our freedom
Our women and our men

In a room filled with a solitary red hue
The bourgeois spins a wheel
With no destination, nor need
She will spin until her brittle Hands bleed
Just to satisfy her ennui and artifice
But she does not see - the rien I see
The monster approaching her empty dreams
Spinning still - she does not know
The insomniac rose will begin to grow
The thorn of clandestine and ebony
Ostracized for he began to realize
What lies in nonsense is decadence
Which sparks interest
Who's lover is a dadaist
But his story is over now
As Seth lead the way
A poet dies in dismay
The thorn as she spun penetrated
A distraction and a lack of action
She knew the temptation for she so loved the sensation
Of crass, rebellious - ways
The thought laid it's seed
In her Gaulish mind it breeds
She has no other need and no regrets
So she proceeds and the smile lets
With full intention and desire
Caring none of her fate that will transpire
She presses her finger on the thorn
So now she bleeds knowingly
she did not recede

As the life and voice of Dr. Maya Angelou were profoundly deep and moving, I hope you will find this grateful tribute to her to be fitting. As it is too long to be posted here, you can find it at
http://www.gopoem.com/immortal-a-poetic-tribute-to-dr-maya-angelou-april-4-1928-forever/
Or, Read it in parts I and II:
Part I:
The name woke me up - sat me up in my bed...
"Maya", the name my voice called out...
As I sat there in the dark, listening...
As I had so many times before...
Wondering at the "whys" and "how - tos" of my impossible dreams.
And as the dark, so was the divide -
That place in me, between what I was,
And the Why and Who I wanted to be...
But always, her voice, that voice named "Maya",
Had called across the divide as a still and steady light.
That unbreakable, unshakable, steady light...
I wondered where it was now, with blinking, thinking eyes.
Had it vanished? Was it vanquished? Could I once again rise -
In the dark staring dead at me... daring me to rise...
I felt hopeless, lost back in the divide… now growing ever and ever wide.
What happens now - my question? A miracle now, an answer - indeed...
For through the dark, that voice named "Maya" whispered...
Whispered into me... sounding a new song's drumbeat creed...
"You", the whispering voice whispered..."You, child - Now, You"...
And my feet were suddenly planted, planted bravely on the ground.
And I stood tall and strong, stepping peacefully forward, twirling round,
For the dark no longer stared at me, but I stared into it...
It no longer owned me... but instead, I commanded it,
By a path so still and steady - and now, so brightly lit:
The light I had strained to see was now the miracle shining from inside of me.
My divide... was now, somehow... unified.
And again the whispering voice came: "Yes child - Yes - I speak your name…
I have come and gone so very far, borne witness to it -
Have delivered a gift to you all - and you were born to use it.
Share it... wear it... and to the dark - dare it - with that unbreakable, unshakable light.”
“Be a voice for all seasons - make some noise for all the reasons,
The downtrodden have to hope for, that the world would grasp and grope for…
Be my voice Now… as I have been yours… a brilliant spirit, not a wandering ghost…
Make your choice, Now - Decide - to be Identified…
To see and live your unbreakable, unshakable, unstoppable dreams.”
Continued i Part II